


Gratitude

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Angsty Schmoop, Brother Feels, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Memories, Correspondence, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epistolary, Family, Family Drama, Father-Son Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Hale Family Feels, Letters, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Organ Transplantation, Organs, Romance, Slow Build, Stilinski Family Feels, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 11:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2579669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claudia Stilinski was a registered organ donor, and upon her death, her organs—including her heart—were donated as per her wishes.</p><p>Five years later, the Stilinskis get a letter from the family of the recipient of Claudia’s heart. They’re not sure whether to respond. After all, both Stiles and the sheriff have done their best to make peace with Claudia’s absence in their lives.</p><p>Eventually, Stiles decides to start corresponding with Derek Hale, whose sister now has Claudia’s heart. He doesn’t count on falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this story contains multiple references to medical procedures, death, trauma and mourning. If you find any of those issues triggering or upsetting in any way, you are advised not to read any further.
> 
> Oh, and if you’re wondering where Cora is, she isn’t here because I began the story before her character was introduced. Also, I ripped off Norco’s zip code for Beacon Hills, so if you’re from Norco, I apologize for the theft of your zip code. Um.

* * *

 

The letter arrived on a Thursday morning, when Stiles was stuffing a toast into his mouth _and_ shoving his feet into his sneakers, so he paid it no attention. Dad tossed it onto the kitchen platform, on top of a bunch of glossy junk mail, before pouring himself some juice.

“Hey,” Dad said, “I’m trained to perform the Heimlich maneuver, but I’d rather not, got it? Chew your goddamn toast.”

“Mfkay,” said Stiles, around the crust, bounding out the door.

He was still five minutes late for Chemistry, which, as usual, meant detention with Harris.

Damn it.

* * *

 

When Stiles got home after lacrosse practice, he found Dad sitting in the living room, nursing a glass of bourbon. Dad had that familiar faraway expression, that look he got when he was seeing his wife in his mind’s eye, hearing her laughter, recalling the precise curve of her smile.

Stiles let his bag slip to the floor. He wasn’t sure what to do when Dad got like this, because Stiles had no clue what to do with himself, either. They’d never quite gotten used to the shape of the grief within them, stepping around it as though it were a boulder in their paths, immovable, unavoidable. Every now and then, though, they _remembered_ , sometimes by mistake, sometimes deliberately, because not remembering her hurt as much as remembering did.

There were remnants of her all over this house, in the linen closet with the green-and-pink pillow cases Mom used to love, in the study with the unicorn-shaped paperweight she’d picked up at a crafts festival, in her handwritten notes on the margins of Stiles’s old schoolbooks, and on the kitchen window-sill, upon which sat a lopsided little vase she’d made at a pottery class.

It was a wonder that they weren’t hobbled by bereavement, that they got through their days without buckling under the weight of her absence, that they didn’t screw everything up without her keeping them in line.

“Yo,” Stiles said, softly, settling onto the couch next to dad. He couldn’t leave Dad alone, like this, even though a selfish part of him didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to get drawn into the deep, dark whirlpool of his father’s despair.

Dad just lifted his glass, as if in a toast, his silence as impenetrable as a fortress. His gaze, focused on the far wall, was unmoving.

So Stiles had to wait it out. He retrieved his bag, pulled out his History textbook, and flipped to the chapter on the Prohibition. He concentrated on the words, on the facts and the figures, because if he didn’t, he’d—

He’d—

His breath hitched, and he forced himself to be calm. He wouldn’t be any use to Dad if he got into the same funk. That was how they managed their sorrow; they took turns with it.

Gradually, the absoluteness of Dad’s silence lightened, and he asked: “How was school?”

“Normal. Scott nearly blew up the science lab. I swear, Harris is getting paranoid; he thinks we’re out to get him.”

“Are you?”

“No!” Stiles exclaimed, a bit too quickly. “I mean, no, er, why would you ask me that?”

Dad snorted, and drained his glass in a single gulp. “My son, the amateur prankster.”

“Hey! I find that offensive. Ain’t nothing amateur about me.”

“Just don’t let it affect your grades.”

“It’ll _raise_ my grades,” Stiles said, mock-seriously. “I’m learning skills the school curriculum doesn’t teach—initiative, creativity and innovation.”

“Well,” Dad said, “even if you fail high school, you’ll have a career as a used car salesman.”

“I’m way more convincing than a used car salesman.”

“Stiles, you couldn’t convince me of your innocence if you tried.”

“That’s because I haven’t tried.”

Dad’s lips twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

After a brief lull, Stiles cleared his throat. “Um, so… What—what happened?” Stiles hated to bring it up, but he had to. If he didn’t, Dad wouldn’t get it out of his system, and would return to that state sooner rather than later. It only ever got this bad if something specific had set Dad off.

Dad put his empty glass down on the coffee table, and reached for the envelop Stiles had caught a glimpse of that morning; it was open, now, with two sheets of paper folded inside it. “Read it,” he said.

Stiles frowned when he saw the sender’s address.

> Heart Transplant Coordinator
> 
> The Beacon Hills Transplant Foundation
> 
> 729 Grosby Avenue
> 
> Beacon Hills, CA 92860

For a moment, it didn’t make sense, but then he realized what it must mean. Shock ran through him like a spear, sharp and poison-tipped. He was strangely afraid, seeing that address, as if he’d gone back in time to when Mom had died. As if he was holding in his hands incontrovertible proof that she had died.

“Was there… Was there a problem with—with the organ donations?” Stiles asked. “But it’s been five years. Did we forget to submit important paperwork?”

“Read it,” Dad repeated, reclaiming his glass and getting up to refill it.

Stiles would’ve told Dad to stop drinking, but he was too busy trying not to crumple the envelope in his grasp. Gingerly, he slid the contents out; they were a pair of letters.

The first was from Dr. Loreena Carlyle, the transplant coordinator, saying that the family to whom Mom had given her heart wished to establish contact. Of course, no last names, addresses, phone numbers or email accounts were to be exchanged, and should the Stilinskis wish to reply to the letter, they had to send their response to the Beacon Hills Transplant Foundation, from where it would be forwarded to the family who had written to them. If, at any stage, both parties agreed to meet in person, the Stilinskis would have to be the ones to initiate the meeting, which would be arranged through the foundation.

Fair enough. Stiles found it reassuring, that their confidentiality was being protected, and that they weren’t obliged to respond. It wasn’t—they weren’t being coerced into this. They could pretend they never got the letter. No pressure.

But the second letter was…

It was almost impossible to bear.

Stiles’s fingers trembled as he read it.

> Dear Donor Family,
> 
> I write to you in gratitude. Your gift to my sister, who received the heart of your loved one, is the greatest gift I have ever received—that _we_ have ever received. There’s literally nothing I can say to convey the enormity of your gift, but I can, at least, tell you what a difference it has made.
> 
> Reading this letter must be very difficult for you. To tell you the truth, I initially wasn’t certain about writing to you, because to remind you of your loss, simply to thank you for my gain, seemed selfish to me. But I have come to realize that you deserve to know how your generosity and your kindness rescued a family like your own, a family that was teetering on the edge of tragedy. You spared us what you yourselves had to go through, and for that, I will be forever indebted to you.
> 
> Allow me to explain why, exactly, that is.
> 
> My name is Derek. My sister and I were orphaned when I was very young, in a house fire that claimed our parents. I was fourteen, and my sister, Laura, was eighteen. Instead of going to college as she had dreamed of doing, she sacrificed her future in order to do several jobs at once, just to support me, to be the mother and guardian I needed. She gave up her youth so that I might have mine. That was the first gift I received.
> 
> And then, I received yours. At twenty-one, Laura was diagnosed with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, a condition that she had likely had for years, but that had gone undetected until she began presenting with heart problems. She went from being an energetic woman to suffering heart failure and being on the brink of death. At that point, I thought I had been robbed of the last person who loved me. I thought my family was finished.
> 
> It was your heart donation that saved her—and that, by extension, saved me. Now, at twenty-six, Laura has a fulfilling career, is about to be married in three months, and is due to have a child of her own in seven months. This new life that is about to be brought into the world is a life that only exists because of you, and because of the heart you gave us. The heart of your beloved mother, father or sibling still beats today. It beats in my sister, and another, tinier heart beats within her.
> 
> Laura has often mentioned wanting to meet you and thank you, but has restrained herself, because she worried that approaching you would be an imposition, an unwelcome reminder of what you have lost. As I said above, I myself shared that anxiety until recently, when I realized that writing to you might bring you a measure of comfort—comfort in the knowledge that a part of the one you love still carries on, and brings such joy to others.
> 
> When I became conscious that, withholding my gratitude seemed a cruelty, an arrogance. I hope that my letter has been able to give you that comfort.
> 
> Please do not feel duty-bound to write to me. If you do write to me, however, I will be deeply grateful to hear from you, to know that you are all well, to discover what you are doing and where life has taken you in these past five years. That, and… to be honest, I would like to invite you to my sister’s wedding. That must seem precipitous, as we do not know each other, but do we really have to know each other when our families share a heart?
> 
> Laura would be delighted to see you, and as I cannot repay her for what she has done for me, the bare minimum I can do is arrange the meeting she has longed for so desperately. In seeing her, I believe you will also have an opportunity to heal, to share in the happiness you have given to us.
> 
> That said, I understand if you only choose to correspond with me, and never meet—or if you choose not to correspond, at all.
> 
> As per the rules of the Beacon Hills Transplant Foundation, I cannot tell you my complete name, nor my postal or email address, nor my mobile phone number. I assure you that the omission of those details is a result of it being a requirement of the law, and not because I do not wish to share them with you, or because I do not trust you with them.
> 
> Thank you for everything. And I do mean _everything_. Everything Laura and I have in our lives is because of your family. They say that god works miracles, and in this instance, he has worked a miracle through you.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Derek.
> 
> P.S. I am sorry for the overly formal tone of this letter, but I was terrified of being inappropriate, so I might’ve erred on the side of caution. I’m horrible at this stuff, but I promise you that my formality is not because of a lack of emotion. Thank you for reading this far.

Stiles read and reread the letter. He felt disembodied, as if he was watching himself from a distance. It was too much, but it was simultaneously the most anyone had spoken of Mom in years. Dad didn’t have proper conversations about her; he and Stiles just sat together while remembering her, and occasionally, they hugged afterward.

But this was—

Stiles couldn’t describe what he was feeling. Like the letter had said, somewhere out there, Mom’s heart was still beating. Somewhere out there, _she was still around_ , making life better for people, like she always did. She’d aspired to make the world a better place, and she had. That was… that was incredible, but it made Stiles want to cry, too, so irrationally and bitterly that he had to clench his teeth to keep from falling apart.

“You okay, son?” Dad asked him, even though he clearly wasn’t okay, himself. He was staring at his glass, which he cradled in his palm like it might break if he gripped it any tighter.

“Do you think we should write back?” Stiles’s voice was hoarse, shaking, and he despised himself for it, for the cowardly streak in him that regretted reading the letter, even though he already knew that it was precious to him, even though he knew it would go into the box of Mom-things that he opened and emptied every other night, spreading them across his bedcover, cataloguing and re-cataloguing them, keeping her alive in his memories.

Dad was quiet. Eventually, he said: “It’s a beautiful letter, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Stiles smoothed it flat, examined its neat, careful script—perhaps too careful, as if the writer had been determined to get it right. It was so _sincere_ , was the thing, so painfully earnest. Stiles wondered at the type of man who could put it all out there, like that, who could talk of his own losses the way Dad and Stiles had never been able to talk about theirs. There was a sort of courage to it, a courage Stiles envied. “That’s not what I’m asking, though.”

“I’ll leave it to you. I can’t—” Dad gestured at the letter. “Not yet, anyway. But if you decide you can do it, go ahead.”

“I’m gonna go upstairs,” Stiles said, slipping the envelope into his bag, along with the history book. “I’ve got homework to do. What’s for dinner?”

“Yesterday’s meatloaf. I’ll make Shepherd’s Pie out of it.”

“Need my help?”

“Nah, you go on and do your homework.”

Stiles padded up the stairs and into his room, and to his surprise, ended up doing his homework, like he’d said.

He left the letter where it was, in his bag. For some reason, he wanted it to be with him when he went to school, tomorrow. He wanted to spend time with it, because it brought him closer to his mom, to her heart which was again full of a mother’s love for her child. The concept was alien and yet somehow fitting, as though a circle had completed itself.

And later that night, as Stiles drifted off to a restless sleep, he resolved to answer the letter—when he’d figured out what to say.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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